


The Agent

by sariane



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Phil Coulson, BRO BRO BRO BRO, Clint's life is a mess, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Romance, Sass, vague references to Secret Avengers, vague references to Young Avengers, which is totally skippable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariane/pseuds/sariane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton (a.k.a. Hawkeye) became the greatest – No. Wait. You already know all that.</p><p><b>Phil Coulson</b> (a.k.a. Cheese) became the greatest SHIELD tactician known to man (I guess). He then joined the Secret Avengers.</p><p>This is what he does when he's not being a Secret Avenger.</p><p>Accidentally invade Clint Barton's personal life, that's what. (Clint, shockingly, doesn't mind.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Agent

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was heeeaaaavily inspired by Matt Fraction's take on Hawkeye. It borrows a lot of the themes and elements of that book and I owe him a lot. (Like my soul, probably.) I hope I've done it justice with this fanfic, and I hope it makes you laugh.
> 
> If you want to skip the smut (or skip to it, go for it), it's the section with double asterisks and should be totally skippable. 
> 
> If you're interested in when this fic is set, it's definitely sometime after Hawkeye #9 and the last run of Young Avengers, but who knows where it fits into Secret Avengers. Just roll with it. If your suspension of disbelief extends to Cint/Coulson as a ship, you can ignore a funky timeline. I believe in you. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to my beta [ThanksForTheVenom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ThanksForTheVenom/pseuds/ThanksForTheVenom). :)
> 
> And, because this Author's Note isn't long enough, I shamelessly tried to copy David Aja's habit of making playlists for his issues of Hawkeye. [You can view and listen to the playlist for this fic here on my tumblr.](http://sarriane.tumblr.com/post/80649813849)
> 
> Warnings:  
> \- Canon-typical violence  
> \- Contains mention of alcohol consumption  
> \- Explicit sexual content  
> \- Secret Avengers-memory-modification thingummy is referenced (in order to ensure informed consent and iron out some power imbalances)  
> \- Swearing

_Okay._

Clint pulled against the ropes that bound him to the wooden chair, trying to loosen the knots. All he had to do was pull a hand free…just a hand, and then he could reach the switchblade in his pocket, and cut himself free, and –

He froze when he heard footsteps at the top of the stairs.

Clint's eyes snapped to the light that filtered through the crack under the door, trying to read the shadows. Two men stood outside of it, their shoes facing each other. Probably big. Probably armed. Definitely pissed.

_This looks –_

"Hey, bro," a heavily accented voice carried through the door, "Gonna see if I can knock some sense into this bro."

"No, bro," replied the other guy in a thick accent – Russian? "They want you up there, bro, want to talk to you. Let me – _handle_ this bro."

_– bad._

The door swung open. 

*

_ONE MONTH EARLIER..._

"I'm not buying you a coffee I can't even pronounce."

"You can pronounce the names of alien species, but not a cappuccino? Come on, Clint." On the phone, Kate sounded disappointed and amused all at once.

"Aliens are different. You don't eat them," Clint said into his phone. The lady ahead of him in line turned to scowl at him. He took a step back, forcing a placating smile in her direction.

"Um."

"Not going there," Clint sighed. "So not going there. No judgment on your taste in boyfriends," he said, then cringed at his choice of wording.

"One: _Ex_ -boyfriend. Two: Not what I meant. At all. Just buy the coffee and get back here,"Kate growled from the other end of the line.

"Alright, Katie-Kate. No need to get pushy," Clint said.

"Who's being pushy?" Kate said. "I could push you–"

"Gotta go, kid."

Unceremoniously, Clint hung up on Kate in time to step up to the Sandollars' counter. _Kids_ , he thought.

"One tall grand caramel _mumble-mumble_ with a shot of _ex_ presso and extra whipped cream," Clint stopped for breath, "and a short regular coffee." He pulled a bill out of his wallet and handed it over as she rung up his order.

" _Valar morghulis_ ," the cashier said as she handed back his change.

"Um, I'm sorry, I don't speak French," Clint said with a frown.

"Your t-shirt," she replied, pointing at Clint's chest. " _Game of Thrones_?"

Clint blinked, looking down. It had " _Winter Is Coming"_ printed across it in large letters.

"Oh. I think my Ex left it –"

"You can pick up your coffee down there," she said, giving him a weird look.

Clint shook his head as he headed towards the other end of the counter to wait for the coffee.

"One _grande_ caramel macchiato with a shot of espresso and extra whipped cream," the barista said a few minutes as he set down the cups. "And a tall coffee."

 _I can't believe that's a real drink_ , Clint thought as he fumbled with the cardboard insulators. _I need to stop picking up that girl's coffee. She's spoiled enough alre –_

Clint nearly dropped the coffees when he spotted a familiar SHIELD agent sitting at a table on the other side of the Sandollars, thoughtfully sipping at a coffee as he scratched something on one of the many papers spread out around him.

 _Is that Coulson?_ Clint wondered, staring at the man. He looked like Coulson. He was wearing a suit, as Coulson always did. He was even frowning like Coulson did when he was frustrated – and how did Clint even _know that_?

On an impulse, Clint walked across the coffee shop and stopped in front of the man's table.

"Coulson, right?" Clint said.

Coulson looked up from the papers spread out in front of him and blinked slowly at Clint.

"You remember me?" he asked strangely.

"Uh, yeah," Clint said, raising his eyebrows. "You make great scones."

For some reason, that was the comment that broke the frown on Coulson's face with a small smile.

"Finally, someone appreciates me for my baking skills instead of my other skill set," Coulson said, grinning.

" _Other_ skill set?" Clint repeated, unable to help himself,  the corner of his mouth quirking up into a lazy smirk.

"Why don't you sit down?" Coulson said, moving some of his papers aside to make room for Clint. Clint glanced down at Kate’s coffee, then looked back up at Coulson.

He pulled out a chair. "Alright."

*

"How long was the line, a mile?" Kate said the moment Clint walked through the door. She was waiting on the couch, legs thrown over the arm, leaning on Lucky while she texted someone on her fancy schmancy smartphone.

"Well," he said, "it took me about ten minutes to read off your drink order."

Kate rolled her eyes and took the proffered caramel _mumble-mumble_ with a scowl. She took a sip.

" _Blegh_ ," she said a moment later. "It's cold! What did you do, stop for dinner and a movie on the way back?"

"I was, uh, talking with someone I know," Clint said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"She better have been cute," Kate grumbled. She propelled herself off the couch and headed towards the kitchen, popping the lid off her coffee to pour it out.

"We – I have a microwave, y'know," Clint said as he collapsed onto her spot on the couch. Lucky looked up at Clint before he jumped off the couch with a disgruntled snort.

"It's broken," Kate huffed as she watched her coffee go down the drain. "I'm late anyways," she sighed.

"How'd it get broken?" Clint said, sitting up. Kate strut back into the room for her lavender-colored coat. "What are you late for, anyways? Shopping?"

"Young Avengers thing," Kate said breezily, buttoning her coat. "You know, friends? You should try them sometime."

"I have friends." Clint stood up to cross his arms, offended. "Real friends. _Adult_ friends."

"Yeah, yeah," Kate said over her shoulder, and then she was out the door.

Clint grabbed the door before it swung shut and poked his head out into the hallway in time to see Kate's retreating back.

"They're the Avengers," he called after her, "the real ones."

"Barton," Kate said over her shoulder, "we're more real than you'll ever be."

_Damn kid._

*

_Damn damn damn damn damn._

"This is our coffee, bro!"

"Bro. Get your own coffee, bro."

Clint's shoulders slammed into the brick wall. The Tracksuit – let's call him Ivan – growled and punched him in the stomach again.

"Oof," Clint groaned, bending forwards. He blocked the next hit and kneed Ivan in the groin, elbowed his windpipe, and swiped his feet out from underneath him. Ivan fell to the pavement with a shout.

Before Clint could catch his breath, two more Tracksuits – Nik and Vlad? – appeared in the mouth of the alleyway. One carried a baseball bat, and the other had brass knuckles.

_Really?_

Clint dove forwards, ducking underneath the swing of Nik's bat and pummeling into Vlad. He threw a few wild punches, then retreated as Vlad brought the brass knuckles up, his punch going wide.

When Clint turned, Nik caught him with the bat.

" _Ow!_ " Clint screamed as bat connected with shoulder. He fell onto his knees, disoriented, and a kick to the head sent him sprawling.

Clint's hands scraped against the pavement as he tried to get to his feet. He felt fuzzy, stuck in a hazy smog. He looked up to see more Tracksuit Draculas – are we past naming them? – emerge from his brainfog. He stumbled, trying to get back to his feet. He was injured (dislocated shoulder? concussion?) and weaponless, but he was an Avenger. He'd faced worse than this. (Albeit, alongside the likes of Captain America.)

_Damn. Wish I had my bow._

Before Clint could straighten up, he heard shouting pierce the alleyway. He scrambled back on his elbows, trying to get to his feet.

"Barton?" someone said. His head snapped up. _He knew that voice._

A Tracksuit came barreling towards Clint, but he still couldn't seem to stand. He froze up, preparing for contact, but another man darted out in front of Clint, shielding him from the attack. He brought the Tracksuit to the ground with a roundhouse and a throw, then turned to face the next guy. And the next.

Clint watched in awe as his rescuer knocked out the small band of Tracksuit Draculas, leaving a trail of beardy bros spread unceremoniously on the pavement. Finally, he took out the last one and turned to Clint.

"Coulson?" he said in disbelief, squinting.

Phil Coulson stood above Clint and offered his hand. Clint took it.

"Were these guys after you?" Coulson asked, helping Clint to his feet.

 _Great,_ Clint thought. _Just what I need today._

"I know this looks –" Clint stopped and shook his head. "My ears are ringing, I –" he covered his eyes with a hand, trying to block out the sunlight that glared into his thoughts.

"You have a concussion," Coulson said softly, tilting his head to look at Clint. "Come on, we should get out of here." He patted Clint's left shoulder, trying to use it to steer him out of the alleyway. Clint yelped.

"Shoulder's dislocated," Clint muttered, holding his left arm protectively.

"Is your place close?" Coulson asked, looking around. He took Clint's other side to support him, like he thought Clint was going to fall over.

"Yeah," Clint said, shaking his head like a dog out of water. "Yeah, uh, what are you–"

Coulson gently threaded his arm around Clint's back to support him. Allowing for Clint's dizziness, Coulson slowly led Clint over the unconscious Tracksuit Draculas and towards the street.

"Let's get you patched up."

*

"Sit down," Coulson said, pulling out one of Clint's chairs and helping him down.

"You don't have to do this," Clint said for what felt like the tenth time. It was probably the twentieth, actually.

"Sit your ass down, Barton, I'm not playing this game today," Coulson said. "You got a first aid kit?"

"It's more like a first aid suitcase, but yeah. It should be on the – yeah." Clint sat limply in the chair as Coulson found his and Kate's gigantic first aid kit sitting on the coffee table.

"Do you buy bandages in bulk?" Coulson asked.

Clint groaned. "Comes with the territory," he sighed. Coulson returned a moment later, bandages and – thank god – a bottle of painkillers in hand.

"I'm going to need to relocate your shoulder," Coulson said, setting the supplies down on the nearby counter.

"Kate can do that when she gets ho – back. It's okay, Coulson, this wasn't a SHIELD thing. You can go home." Clint looked pleadingly at Coulson, but he ignored Clint.

"I'll help you with your shirt," Coulson said, kneeling by Clint's sighed. Clint sighed and began to work up the hem of his t-shirt. Carefully, Coulson helped him pull it over his right arm and over his head, then over his left arm.

"Y'know, Coulson, if you wanted me to take off my clothes, you could've just asked," Clint said, smirking.

"Can I see your arm?"Coulson asked, ignoring Clint.

Clint sighed, but finally relinquished his arm. Coulson frowned as he ran a hand over Clint's shoulder. His hands were cool, their touch tender, but Clint's skin felt tight and too hot. Coulson's fingers were strangely soothing as they ran over the curve of his shoulder, Coulson humming in thought as he felt the bump from the dislocation.

"This might hurt some," Coulson said. “Tell me when you feel –"

"Ow," Clint said as Coulson twisted his arm to the side until he felt resistance. Pain shot up his arm.

"Now, I'm going to try to put it back in place," Coulson said gently. He moved Clint's wrist and rotated his forearm. Clint felt pain as his arm moved, and then –

"Fuck!" Clint yelped as his shoulder moved back into place. He rubbed his shoulder with his other hand.

"That better?" Coulson asked, smiling like there was something funny about Clint groaning like he’d been hit by a truck. (Again.)  something

"Oh, fuck," Clint moaned. Gently, he rolled his shoulder, trying to get a feel for it. Everything seemed to be in place. "Fuck, that's good.”

"Jesus, Clint, I told you to put a sock on the door or something. Can't you keep it in your pants for –" Clint looked up to see Kate frozen in the doorway, hands on her hips, her face caught somewhere between a wry smirk and surprise. She had Lucky's leash in hand.

The dog barked at the sight of Coulson.

 _This is not going to end well_ , Clint thought.

"Hello," Coulson said, standing up.

 "Oh," Kate said, lowering her sunglasses. " _Hey_." Clint rubbed his shoulder and stood up, looking from Kate to Coulson. She squinted at him, eyes full of scrutiny.

"You must be the spook he told me about," Kate said flatly.

"Play nice, Kate," Clint said, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

" _The_ spook?" Coulson asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Kate nodded. "The cute one. With the scones."

Clint resisted the urge to bang his head on the counter. He already had a concussion.

For a long moment, Coulson didn't say anything, just stared at Kate as though he wasn't sure how to deal with a teenager. Kate smiled predatorily at the sign of weakness.

"I think you have me confused with the Black Widow," he said finally.

"Yeah, because you look _so_ alike," Kate snorted.

 _That girl is going to be the death of me,_ Clint sighed mentally.

 _"Woof! Woof woof!"_ Lucky barked loudly, jumping up onto Coulson.

"Lucky!" Clint scolded, stepping forward to try to push his dog off Coulson. "Damn dog. Get off him, come on."

"It's okay," Coulson said, smiling down at Lucky. "I like dogs."

"Oh my god," Kate muttered to herself, shaking her head.

 _"Woof!"_ Laughing, Coulson reached down to scratch Lucky behind the ears.

As Clint leaned down to pat Lucky's head, he felt his legs go weak. He nearly fell over, his head suddenly light and dizzy again with the sudden movement.

"Whoa there," Coulson said, grabbing Clint's unhurt arm to steady him. He helped Clint over to the couch. Clint sat back heavily and closed his eyes, pressing his hand over them to block out the bright light coming in through his windows.

"Oh, Clint," Kate said, finally noticing his injuries. "What happened?"

"He's got a concussion," Coulson said from across the room. Before Clint could wonder what he was doing there, he returned with an ice pack from Clint's fridge. "Here," Coulson said softly, pressing it gingerly to Clint's head.

"Tracksuit Draculas at Sandollars," Clint muttered in explanation. Kate propelled herself across the room and began pacing back and forth, shaking her head.

"Damn," Kate swore. "Those _jerks_." Lucky whined, as if he agreed.

"Ow!" Clint said, flinching away when he felt something sting his knuckles. Belatedly, he realized Coulson was patting a disinfectant wipe over his bloody knuckles, trying to clean off the blood and grit.

"Sorry," Coulson said unapologetically, grabbing back Clint's hand to finish cleaning his scratches. He looked over at Kate. "Is this a regular thing?" he asked.

"Why are you asking _her_?" Clint whined, but they ignored him.

"Unfortunately," Kate said. "They're all over this neighborhood. They're ticked 'cause Clint bought the building and forced one of their guys out of the country."

"This seems pretty extreme reaction to that," Coulson said. "Does you being an _Avenger_ have anything to do with it?" he asked Clint.

"Hey, I’m an Avenger, too," Kate muttered. "Kinda."

"I don't know. I also, kind of, helped this one guy's wife get outta town. And there was this safe. And then there was a strip club…" Clint trailed off. To his credit, Coulson didn't raise his eyebrows. He'd probably read about it in the SHIELD weekly newsletter or something. Clint Barton: Making An Ass Out Of Himself Again.

"Why haven't you gotten the police involved?" Coulson asked. Clint's hands were clean by now, so Coulson dabbed a little antibiotic onto his knuckles and began to bandage them carefully. Clint tried not to wince.

"Because, we're handling it," Clint said firmly. "The police are shit at the mafia, and these guys are –"

_Click._

"Kate!" Clint yelled, looking up after the flash on Kate's cameraphone went off, capturing him and Coulson sitting close on the couch, heads together, Coulson carefully bandaging Clint's hands. Kate smirked and ignored him to type something into her phone.

"How many of your Young Avenger friends just got that picture message?" Clint demanded.

"Oh, that's a good idea," Kate said, smirking. “Clicktalk!” Clint groaned and reluctantly looked to Coulson, a 'What can you do?' expression on his face.

To his surprise, Coulson was _laughing._

*

"This is stupid," Clint said as Natasha Romanov slid into the barstool beside him. He glanced around the bar in disgust. It was a nice place, better than his usual dives, but this thing – this _mixer_ , or cocktail party, or whatever it was called when a bunch of superheroes and spies got together – wasn't his idea. Neither were his slacks or the nearly-ironed dress shirt Kate had forced him into before he got out the door, but he'd shrugged out of the blazer as soon as he was out of sight of the apartment. He didn’t know quite why he was going.

But, you know, maybe he’d see someone he knew.

"What?" Natasha said, raising a carefully penciled eyebrow in mock shock. "Come on, Clint. Don't be…"

"An asshole?" Clint finished for her. "Sorry, I can't help myself, apparently."

Natasha sighed loudly. "Someone hasn't been laid in a few months," she said with a twist of her mouth.

"Like you can talk," Clint answered. He took a swig of his beer. "Not like I'm going to pick anyone up here, anyways."

"Why not?" Natasha asked, sweeping her eyes across the agents and heroes crowded throughout the bar.

"Because this is a damn SHIELD bar," Clint grumbled. "Not my type, sorry."

"I thought that was _exactly_ your type," Bobbi Morse said as she walked over, leaning over the bar to flag down the bartender.

"Uh, pretty sure my 'type' does not have the SHIELD logo tattooed across their ass," Clint muttered into his drink. He shifted uncomfortably in his barstool.

"Well, that rules Fury out," Bobbi snorted. Natasha grinned.

"I'm not going to sit here and listen to my exes _matchmaking_ for me," Clint groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"You thought we were matchmaking?" Natasha laughed. "No, we're just making fun of you."

"I don't have to listen to this," Clint said.

"Hey, are you mocking Clint without me?" Jessica Drew said as she joined them, hopping up onto her own stool.

"I'm going to go talk to someone else," Clint said, shaking his head. He grabbed his beer and began to walk away.

"Aw, Clint, don't be like that," Bobbi called after him with a wink, but Clint left just as the three women burst into laughter.

He glanced around the bar, wondering why he'd even come in the first place, and wondered if he should just ditch the place and head home early. Of course, the moment he gave up, he spotted Phil Coulson, sitting alone in a corner and quietly nursing a drink.

 _Don't do it_ , Clint told himself. _Leave well enough alone. Don't–_

"Hey," Clint said, setting his beer down on the table. "Do you mind if I…?"

"Go ahead," Coulson said. "No one else has taken it."

"So," Clint smirked, pulling the chair out with a unseemly _SCRIIICH._ "What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?" 

"I was supposed to meet with some old friends," Coulson explained, "but they couldn’t make it. I thought I'd show anyways, see who was here." He shrugged. Clint nodded in what he hoped looked like solidarity and understanding.

"SHIELD buddies, or…?"

"Rangers," Coulson supplied.

For a moment, Clint didn't know what to say. He wanted to ask more, but he wasn't sure where the line was drawn between him and Coulson.

"I, uh," he started awkwardly, then cleared his throat. "Wanted to thank you for the other week."

"It's no problem," Coulson said. "I meant to ask, how's the concussion?"

"Fine," Clint said with an easy smile. "Kate took a lot of pleasure in waking me up every two hours." Coulson laughed.

"She's a bright kid," he said.

"Yeah," Clint said, strangely proudly. "She is. Deserves better, honestly." He looked away from Coulson and turned his eyes downwards, tracing the label on his beer bottle instead.

"Barton," Coulson started. He paused, and out of the corner of his eye, Clint watched Coulson look at him for a long moment. "Clint."

He looked up.

"Are you alright?" Coulson asked. Clint was surprised to find what he thought might be real, honest concern in Coulson's eyes.

 _Of course I am. Say it, Barton,_ Clint told himself. _Say it._

"I…don't know," Clint said honesty. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

_What are you doing here, Barton? What do you think you're doing?_

"Do you want to talk about it?" Coulson asked. Clint laughed bitterly, slumping back in his chair, feeling sour and, he realized, a little bit drunk.

"I don't know," Clint said. "I don't know anymore. It seems like every day, things get worse. I thought it'd be nice to get away for a few hours, y’know?"

Coulson nodded. "So, those…Tracksuit Draculas. They aren't leaving you alone?"

"No," Clint sighed. "At first I thought it was just their territory, you know? Didn't want an Avenger scaring off business. And then it was the building, and the others, and the street, and now it's the goddamn Sandollars, and I just, I just wanted a break." Coulson nodded sympathetically. "I thought maybe I'd run into you again there, you know, I didn't know they'd be –" Clint froze and looked up when he realized what he'd said.

 _Dummy,_ he thought. _Maybe you're drunker than you think._

"Wait," Clint said, something else clicking in his mind. "What were you doing in Bed-Stuy, anyways?"

"I live there," Coulson said, raising an eyebrow, but thankfully not making a comment about Clint's accidental drunken admission.

Clint opened his mouth, then closed it.

"I know," Coulson said, taking it all in his stride. "As amazing as it might sound, I do actually have to sleep somewhere. I don't hang upside down from the ceiling in my office on the Helicarrier."

"Nah, that's Natasha's area," Clint smirked, leaning forwards with his elbows on the table. "I always imagined you as more of a…robot."

"I always imagined you taller," Coulson countered, tilting his head sideways a little. Clint could tell he was biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile.

"… _Imagined?"_ Clint smirked, and, despite the fact that Clint was the one making a fool of himself, Coulson _blushed._ Clint stared, unable to help himself.

_He's actually kind of –_

"So," Coulson said levelly, interrupting Clint's thoughts. "Not that it's any of my business, but what are you going to do about these…Tracksuit Draculas?"

"You aren't going to, what, file a report with SHIELD?" Clint asked, confused.

"How would that help?" Coulson asked. He took a sip of his drink (Clint was pretty sure it was Pepsi, actually) before he continued. "I can put some feelers out if you'd like me to, but this isn't our jurisdiction. If I thought you were open to it, I'd offer whatever assistance I could provide. It sounds like it could get ugly quick."

"Assistance?" Clint frowned. "No, I don't need security cameras everywhere and – and _attack droids_ watching the block. I can do this on my own."

"That wasn't what I meant," Coulson said, like something Clint had said was amusing.

"Then what did you mean?" Clint asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"I meant _me_."

Clint’s mouth went a little dry. He frowned, half wanting to snap back, to say that he was fine, that he didn’t need Coulson.

But he _wanted_ Coulson. There was a difference there. Somehow.

Coulson seemed to take his conflicted silence as polite refusal, because he continued. "And, I know you won't take me up on it,” he said, “but if you ever need someone safe to stay, my place is open to you.” ~~~~

"Well," Clint said awkwardly. “I, uh, I wasn’t expecting—“

"I know it's a lot to presume, but –"

"– What's your cell number?" Clint asked, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he realized what he’d said.

Coulson patted his pockets, searching for something, but all he pulled out was a pen. "I don’t have anything to write on," he said apologetically, but Clint waved him off.

"Shoot," Clint said, holding out his hand. Coulson stared at him for a very long moment before he took Clint's hand and gently wrote his cell phone number on Clint's palm.

Clint felt the ghost of Coulson's hand on his for the rest of the night until he left, when Natasha patted him on the shoulder and whispered into his ear, "Let us know if he has the SHIELD logo tattooed on his ass."

*

The next morning, Clint woke up sprawled across his couch, pins and needles in his feet. He looked down to see Lucky lying fast asleep on his legs. He groaned.

"Uurgh," he said, trying to extract his feet without waking the dog.

Clint's head pounded as he sat up. He hadn't been _that_ drunk when Ph – Coulson had given him a ride home, right? He rubbed at his stubbly jaw and yawned, wincing when Lucky barked and jumped off the couch.

"Go back to sleep," he told his dog, rolling over onto his other side on the couch. He'd get up in a minute. He'd get up in a minute, have a glass of orange juice and a couple painkillers, drink like ten cups of coffee, and then he'd deal with all this shit. Return to his Wall of Conspiracy, or whatever. Figure out what to do about the Tracksuit Draculas. Figure out why they were always…were always…

"Damn it," Clint swore, snapping his head up.

Groaning, he rolled off the couch, closing his curtains (when'd he get curtains?) on his way to the coffee maker while the vague outlines of a plan arranged themselves in his head.

He’d need surveillance info, maps, building plans, and a camera, but he could do this.

 _I’ve finally got this,_ Clint thought optimistically to himself. He uncapped a pen and got to work. 

*

"Shit," Clint swore, glaring at the phone number on his palm. The blue ink was faded and a little smudged, but Coulson's neat and steady handwriting was legible – except for the last number, which was smeared to no more than a blue blur. He looked back up at the phone on his wall and took the phone off the hook to dial.

 _917_. Clint dialed in the _5_ 's, then: _9 – 4 – 7 –_ , uh, what was next? – _7_.

 _"Hello?"_ a woman's voice answered.

"Uh, hi," Clint said awkwardly. "Is, um, Phil there?" For one horrible moment, Clint imagined that Coulson had a _wife_ who answered the phone, and any minute now he'd have to explain himself to her.

 _"Sorry, honey, I think you've got the wrong number,"_ came the answer.

"Oh. Sorry," Clint said before he hung up. He sighed before he started dialing again.

 _– 9 – 4 – 7 –_ 8 _._

BRRRRNG. BRRRRNG. BRRRRNG.

_"Hello?"_

"Coulson?" Clint asked, voice cracking a little. He swallowed, trying desperately to wet his dry throat.

"Speaking," Coulson answered politely.

"It's Hawkeye – it's Clint Barton," Clint said, slumping in relief.

"Oh. Hello, Barton. What can I do for you?"

Coulson sounded strangely formal over the phone. Clint wondered if he'd caught him during SHIELD business, or if Coulson just wasn't used to talking to people on the phone. He definitely didn't have a hangover – Clint had found out last night that Coulson didn't drink.

"I, um, think I figured out a solution to my Tracksuit problem,” Clint said, then paused.

“Let me guess,” Coulson said when Clint didn’t continue. “You want me to use SHIELD resources to get you information?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds bad,” Clint chuckled.

"Well,” Coulson said. “What did you have in mind?”

In the privacy of his apartment, Clint grinned to himself.

*

"Did you bring the building plans?" Clint asked the moment Coulson walked through the door.

"Yeah," Coulson said, pulling out a briefcase. "Ran into some of your friends out front, too. But they didn't give me any trouble. I think they thought I was a lawyer." Clint frowned.

Shoving the miscellaneous crap on his kitchen table aside, Clint made room for the newspaper clippings and polaroids he'd snapped. Coulson rolled the building blueprints out on the table and pulled out a few pencils and pads of sticky notes.

"How did you want to start?" he asked, setting a few notebooks and files out as well. Clint was chagrined to even spot _Penny's_ among them. "I wasn't sure which building worked as their headquarters, but satellite footage showed the most activity in and out of his building, which has undergone some interesting renovations," he said, rolling out a particular set of blueprints. "Additionally, here are dossiers on all known Tracksuits, as well as some background reports on the residents of nearby buildings, and a workup of the roofs and fire escapes of adjacent structures."

Coulson looked up and smiled almost _fondly._ "I know you like rooftops."

Clint whistled, long and low.

“Wow,” he said. “I just wanted some building plans,” he said with a smile.

“Please, you can get those from the city,” Coulson snorted.

“Wait, what?” Clint said, blinking, but Coulson had already sat down and begun to draw up some notes.

Shaking his head, Clint  headed to the coffee maker and poured out two cups of coffee. When he returned to the table and handed Coulson his mug, he looked up expectantly, waiting for Clint to take lead. It felt…awkward, for some reason. Clint wasn’t used to being in charge like this, and certainly not planning things out like this. He just didn’t want to go in blind again.

He’d never really worked with Coulson before – not really. He’d just seen him around the…gym…and SHIELD…and he’d eaten his scones once, and...and…

“So, what’s the plan?” Coulson asked, interrupting Clint’s thoughts. “I’ve identified a few possible entry points,” he said, showing Clint where he’d marked the plans.

“Jeez, Coulson,” Clint said, shaking his head. “Honestly, I didn’t expect this. Like I said, I just wanted plans. I just need to get in and out without being spotted. I’m going in there myself.”

“If you’re going in there, so am I,” Coulson said firmly, looking over at Clint.

“I’ll be faster alone,” Clint argued, meeting his eye.

“Or you’ll get yourself into trouble, and you’ll be outnumbered,” Coulson countered. “Barton, if you didn’t want me coming along, you shouldn’t have asked me to help you in the first place.”

 _I don’t need his help_ , Clint thought _. So why do I keep asking for it?_

He sighed. “Fine,” he said begrudgingly. “I guess I could use an extra pair of eyes.”

"Please, if you just wanted backup, you'd have asked Kate," Coulson smirked, trying to break through Clint’s dark mood. "I don't do things halfway."

"Then we better get started,” Clint sighed.

He scooted his chair back and reached for Coulson’s dossiers, flipping through the profiles of the crime lords and their lackeys.

"I was thinking about what these guys want,” Clint said, drumming his fingers on the edge of a manila file. “I don't know if they don't like me because I'm an Avenger, because I stood up to them, or both. But I've been thinking. They've been ahead of us, every step of the way, whether I'm helping out – a friend –" he avoided Coulson's eye, "– or just protecting my building. It's like, they know something I don’t know."

"Do you think they have someone inside your building?" Coulson suggested, tapping his pencil against his chin.

"Nah, these guys were all about to get kicked out when I bought it out," Clint said, shaking his head. "But, if I'm going to get ahead of them, I need to know what their endgame is."

"It might just be a territory war," Coulson suggested.

"No, it's something else," Clint said. "They're too…personal about it. They attacked _Kate_ , Coulson – not that it ended well for them. They threatened to kill everyone in my building. No matter what I do, they’re always one step ahead of me.”

“So they want to hurt _you_ , more than anything,” Coulson said. “Or, that’s what you think.”

 “They’re playing dirty, Coulson, they don't care who they hurt. They don't care if they hurt my dog, or if they hurt kids. So, I thought – why not get ahead of them? Break into their building. Take a look at the place, see what they got, scope them out."

"Recon," Coulson nodded. "They don't have computers you can hack?"

"The place doesn't even get Internet," Clint sighed, shaking his head. “They’re so low-tech.”

"Says the grown man who doesn't have a cell phone," Coulson smirked.

"Shut up, you," Clint said, but he couldn't bite back a smile. He shared a glance with Coulson before he cleared his throat authoritatively.

"So," Clint said. "What do you think is the best way to get in?"

*

"Kate!" Clint called from the living room. "Katie-Kate! Hawkeye!"

"What do you want?" Kate called back, not budging from her chair. "Oh, crap. It's like, midnight, Clint, I should be getting–"

"I got this dumb spy camera," Clint sighed, holding up some tiny piece of tech with wires sticking out of it. Kate raised an eyebrow. "And it's broken. And I need a digital camera –"

"Here," Kate said, pulling her cameraphone out of her pocket. "But don't you dare break it, Clint Barton."

"I won't. Thank you!" he said, backing away.

"Are you going on a mission?" Kate asked as he swung his bag over his shoulder. "Shouldn't you bring your bow? And have asked me, maybe?" He was dressed in all black, wearing gloves, a hoodie, his knitted cap, and tight black skinny jeans. He rolled his eyes as Kate checked him out obviously.

"Sorry, kiddo, but you're staying here," Clint said, shaking his head. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"Who's going as your backup, then?" she asked, frowning. "Oh my god," Kate gasped, her eyes lighting up. "You're on a work date with that _Coulson_ , aren't you!" she grinned triumphantly. "That's what you two were planning earlier! That's why you're wearing the jeans I said showed off your ass!”

Clint sighed. "It's just a little recon, Kate."

"Yeah, right," she snorted. "Remember how that worked out last time? At least you've got somebody competent with you."

"Kate–"

"This isn't one of those 'no homo' things, is it?" she asked, spearing him with a glare. "Because that's lame, even from you. Seriously, as long as it’s safe and between two consenting adults, I don’t care. I'll even clear out of here if you want."

"Oh my god," Clint groaned. “You are not having this conversation with me right now.”

"What’s that river in Egypt?” Kate chuckled. “Or are you just embarrassed about all the hot, manly, sweaty man-sex you’ll be having –“

"I’m leaving," Clint called, heading for the door. "Goodbye, now."

He opened the door, holding Lucky back when the dog tried to follow him out into the hallway.

"Clint," Kate called after him, her voice suddenly serious. When Clint turned, she threw her arms around him, having just sprinted across the apartment. With a tiny smile, Clint patted her on the back.

"Be careful out there," she said into his shoulder. "Not like last time. You big dummy."

"I always am," Clint said, pulling back and ruffling her hair. "Order a pizza or something. I’ll be back ina few hours. Hold down the fort, kid."

"Yeah, yeah," she chuckled.

After Clint shut the door behind him, he pulled out Kate's phone (ignoring a handful of Clicktalk requests from some America guy) and sent a text to the number he'd memorized:

_using kate's phone. be right out._

*

Coulson kept watch while Clint picked the lock on the third-story window. Clint perched on the edge of a fire escape’s railing, precariously keeping his balance over the alleyway below.

On the first floor, there was some kind of party going, the flashing neon lights visible through the cracks in the newspapered windows, music pumping steadily every time a door opened. There were plenty of fancy cars out front, which Clint had barely resisted keying as they crept past.

He turned back to the task at hand, fiddling with his lockpick.

"I have gadgets for that, you know," Coulson whispered beside him.

"Shh, I had to've learned this for something," Clint shot back, just as the lock clicked and he pushed the window open. "Age before beauty," he said, moving from the fire escape railing to let Coulson climb through the window first.

Coulson wasn't wearing a SHIELD-issue jumpsuit, which Clint had almost expected before he showed up, but his usual suit and tie. Clint wondered if that was his equivalent of a costume.

Clint climbed in through the window behind Coulson, closing it after him, but not locking it, just in case he tripped some alarm system they didn't already know about. Hopefully they'd be able to make it out the same way, but he doubted it. Things never went as smoothly as planned.

Quietly, they continued through the room – empty, luckily – and stopped at the door. After listening for a moment, Coulson snuck out first, Clint popped following him into the hallway after a moment. It was shadowy, lit only by dim yellow fluorescent lights. Music from below pumped up through the hallway, setting an eerie atmosphere. Clint could feel the bass beneath his feet.

They'd worked out a few likely locations for an office, but ruled out a few of them based on the remodeling blueprints from the contractor. That left two possible offices: one on the third floor, where they were, and the other in the basement, past the party, past enough Tracksuit Draculas that it was more like a – a Tracksuit _Coven._

Clint hoped it was on the third floor.

Silently, they continued down the apartment hallway, keeping an eye out for the sound of footsteps or doors opening. Clint looked around, wary of security cameras, but it was a pretty low-tech deal.

They stopped when they reached the end of the hall. Coulson checked around the corner with a hand mirror (an oldie, but a goodie, Clint supposed) and signaled when the coast was clear. They went right to the second door down, next to the elevator. It was a large closet on the building plans.

Clint tested the doorknob carefully, not noticing a keypad or a deadbolt. It was locked, but his lockpicking skills made short work of that.

With a shared glance, he and Coulson slowly crept into the room.

Coulson shined an inconspicuous red-bulbed flashlight around before he flicked on the brighter yellow beam. There were boxes of cleaning materials, mops, brooms, five gallon buckets, spray bottles... Just a supply closet.

Clint deflated, his shoulders slumping.

"We could check the upper floors," Coulson suggested in a whisper.

"And get caught?" Clint sighed and resisted the urge to kick a box in frustration. "If there's anything, it'll be in the room in the basement – the contractors' plans made the room look reinforced," he whispered. Coulson nodded in agreement. "There are two ways down to the basement," Clint said. "The elevator, or the door on the ground floor."

"The elevator might need a key," Coulson said thoughtfully.

"The basement access door will _definitely_ need a key," Clint replied. "We'll need to get past the party," he said.  Which would be a lot easier if they actually knew what to expect.

"Wait," Coulson whispered, quietly closing the closet door, shutting them in together. Stupidly, Clint's heart leaped in his chest. "Some of the cars on the street," he said, pulling his phone out of his pocket, "seemed a little too tasteful for these guys."

"Businessmen," Clint said. "Probably some police officers. What are you doing?"

"Double-checking the license plates," Coulson murmured, typing something into the SHIELD Database.

"You can remember them?" Clint asked.

"Near-photographic memory," Coulson supplied. Clint gaped.

"Is there anything about you that isn't–" Clint stopped himself there.

"I snore," Coulson said, glancing up with a small smile."Like I thought," he said as his search came through. "A couple of suits, business and franchise owners, a handful of policemen… They must be trying to bribe them."

"They'll have some kind of club set-up down there," Clint said, frowning. "We'll never get through that without being spotted."

"I have an idea," Coulson said, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He began to unbutton his collar, loosened his tie, and drew it sloppily to the side.

"What are you doing?" Clint asked, mouth going dry as he watched Coulson pull out his shirttails and rumple his jacket.

"Recon," Coulson replied, running a hand through his hair to ruffle it up.

Clint swallowed. "Um," he said, watching Coulson lick his lips and pinch his cheeks to redden them.

"Stay here," Coulson warned, "I'll be back in ten minutes. Turn on your comm." Before Clint could stick his tongue back in his mouth and protest, Coulson was out the door and headed down to the party.

Clint looked around the supply closet, set out a few boxes to sit on, and pulled out Kate's phone to play _Happy Bird._

Through his comm earpiece, he heard the elevator doors _ding!_ as they shut behind Coulson.

 _"It needs a key for the basement,"_ Coulson said into the comms once he was alone in the elevator. Clint swore under his breath.

After a second _ding!,_ the elevator doors opened on the party. The sounds of booming music, laughter, and the odd _"Bro!"_ came through Clint’s earpiece as Coulson walked out into the party. Clint listened carefully for anything from Coulson, but all he could make out was the occasional giggle as Coulson stumbled around, feigning drunkenness.

 _"Guards on the door,"_ Coulson murmured as he walked around.

"The elevator will be easier, then," Clint said. "Think we could pick the lock? Or do you have a fancy gadget for that?"

 _"I'm traveling light,"_ Coulson muttered. " _Unless_ …" he trailed off, leaving Clint in the dark.

Biting back a disgruntled comment, Clint looked down at _Happy Bird_ and tapped furiously at the little bird on Kate's phone. He kept his ears pricked, listening for anything as a sign that Coulson was in trouble. What was Coulson doing? Was he going to bribe some strippers – dancers, whatever – to seduce the guards away? Attempt to conspicuously incapacitate the guards? Hypnotize them with his brain?

Clint was on Level 88 (busy imagining Coulson _himself_ batting his eyelids in some ill-advised attempt to seduce a Tracksuit) when Coulson's whisper came across the line again.

 _"Got it,"_ Coulson said triumphantly.

"Got what?" Clint asked, confused.

 _"The key."_ He could hear the smile in Coulson's quiet murmur.

A few minutes later, Coulson had fake-stumbled his way up the main staircase and was back into the supply closet. He looked out of breath, proud, and, if Clint had anything to say about it, _gloriously_ debauched. Within a moment, Coulson smoothed his hair down and fixed his shirt and tie, back to plain old immaculate Coulson.

_Damn._

"Have a little too much fun down there?" Clint asked with a smirk.

"The – dancers," Coulson said, gesturing vaguely. He seemed somewhat surprised by the question. "They thought I was one of the men they were supposed to entertain. I had to get past them to pickpocket–"

"Now I know why you wanted to come along so bad," Clint joked, ignoring how wrong it felt to say it. A pained, awkward look crossed Coulson's face.

"They weren't exactly my type," he said, then shook his head. "Come on," he said, holding up a key.

"Where'd you get that?" Clint asked, taking it from him.

"Pickpocketed off some big guy. Had a big dangling ring of keys. Pretty drunk, too," Coulson said.

"Wow," Clint smirked. "Looks like I'm going to have to keep you." And then, before he could say anything else stupid, Clint poked his head out the door to check that the coast was clear. "On my signal," he said quietly back to Coulson, then emerged into the hallway.

Clint pressed the down arrow for the elevator and stood at the side of the wall, out of view of anyone who might be inside.

When the doors _ding!_ -ed open and any passengers failed to appear, Clint held the doors with a hand and signaled to Coulson, who joined him in the elevator.

Clint pressed the Close Doors button. He put the key into the slot next to the 'B' and turned it.

Nothing happened.

"You have to press the button," Coulson said, leaning forward to press the 'B.' The elevator began to descend.

"I knew that," Clint said, crossing his arms.

"Yeah," Coulson said with a small smile, "I know, you were just testing me."

Chagrinned, Clint took up position on his side of the elevator in the front corner, rendering him invisible to anyone from the other side of the door. Coulson mirrored his position in his own corner.

They passed the main floor, likely due to Clint's finger pressed on the 'B' to avoid any stops that would blow their cover, and stopped on the basement floor. Once again, the elevator doors opened with a small _ding!_

Coulson pulled out his mirror again to survey the basement, then silently signaled the all-clear.

_Show time._

Clint went first, prepared for a fight, but the basement was empty. It was dark and dank, the contrasting smells of mold and bleach permeating the air. A little bluish light filtered in through the frosted windows casting them in a half-light, enough that Clint could make out Coulson's silhouette. A single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, but Clint didn't dare turn it on and attract attention.

Coulson pulled out his dim red-bulbed flashlight again and switched it on, casting an eerie blood-colored beam over the miscellaneous junk. Chairs, orange crates, broken furniture…Finally, the flashlight's beam stopped on a door on the far side of the basement.

_Gotcha._

Clint strode to the door. It was built into a room specially constructed against the wall to create a glorified closet, separate from the rest of the basement. It was fixed with a nine-digit electronic keypad lock.

"Crap," Clint sighed, staring at the keypad. "It'll take me forever to hotwire that thing."

"I've got something for that," Coulson said, pulling yet another device from his pockets. The screen lit up, showing fuzzy fingerprints over five of the numbers. "The four is used twice," he whispered. "It has more oil residue. And this should tell me the order," Coulson said, typing something into the device.

"Is that what they teach in the SHIELD academies?" Clint joked as Coulson typed in the code, _8-4-6-4-1._

"No," Coulson said. The lock clicked open, and Coulson turned to Clint with a smile as he pushed the door open. "I just watch a lot of _Sherlock_."

Clint followed Coulson into the office and shut the door behind them. He pulled out his own tiny flashlight to shine around the office.

 _Jackpot,_ Clint thought, blood pumping triumphantly as he looked around the small office room, filled with filing cabinets, a safe, a small closet, and a desk.

"What are you looking for?" Coulson said.

"Anything about their plans," Clint said, "I just want to know what they're doing. You got a gadget for that safe?" At Coulson's nod, Clint pointed to the safe in the corner. "You open that. I'll look through the desk first. Let's be out of here in five."

Clint spurred into action, carefully picking the locks on the desk drawer and pulling out a file of folders, careful not to disturb anything. He stuck the end of his flashlight into his mouth to read by, and opened a file. He sifted through it quickly, finding nothing but tax shit. _Wish I could sick the IRS on them_ , he thought wryly. _They'd deserve it._

Carefully setting the file back where he left it, Clint locked the drawer and quickly went through the others. There was nothing he could use, just information on the many businesses the Tracksuit Draculas worked through. Laundering money, pushing drugs, and countless, _countless_ records of rental properties, residential and commercial, bought and rented out and sold. Receipt upon receipt, the numbers rising higher than even _Clint_ could believe. These guys were _rich._

Clint pulled out Kate's phone, snapping pictures of the business papers and receipts. If he could get a map of which buildings they still owned, even under false names and made-up corporations, he could at least get on _that._ Clint found a map of the area and took a picture of that, too, waiting until the yellow square focused on the page before snapping another.

"Barton," Coulson whispered. Clint looked up to see him in front of the opened safe, revealing huge wads of cash, as well as a few boxes jewelry boxes, and what looked like a 24 carat gold gun. Clint was judging. He was judging so hard.

"Lock it back up," Clint said with a sigh. They'd wasted enough time here already. A quick sweep of the file cabinets, then maybe he'd have to consider this a failure –

"No," Coulson said, holding up something else. A file.

Clint haphazardly shoved Kate's phone into his pocket and dove forwards, taking the file from Coulson's hands and spreading it out on the floor, waiting with bated breath to see what they were hiding in the safe.

Pictures of him.

Pictures of Kate, of Jess, Bobbi, and even one of Natasha. Pictures of him walking Lucky, pictures of him through his window – _Ew, never opening my blinds again._ – practicing with his bow, pictures of him on the roof with his neighbors. There was a full dossier on each of them, detailing his history and his status with the Avengers, his skills, his weak spots…

"This is good work," Coulson said from beside him, his voice pitched low, dry with the plain observation. "Professional grade. They've invested a lot in you." Clint watched Coulson lick his lips, then turn the page, looking at the latest addition to the file – a photo of him walking into Clint's apartment, with a question mark at the bottom of the photo. They'd only caught his silhouette, but Clint knew that, with time and a few more visits, they'd have as much about Coulson in this dossier as they did about Kate.

"Those bastards," Clint spat. It made his blood boil, made Clint want to run up and punch as many Tracksuits as he could before they could stop him, break a few noses and ribs and –

_Ca-clik ca-clik ca-clik ca-clik._

Clint and Coulson looked up in unison. The noise was coming from outside the room, in the basement.

In a flash, Coulson closed the file and slotted it exactly as he'd found it, locked the safe, and set it as he’d found it. Clint straightened the desk chair and closed the last drawer, looking around the room to check that nothing was out of place.

_Ca-clik ca-clik ca-clik ca-clik._

As the noise stopped outside the door, Clint looked around the room, his eyes stopping on the closet door. He rushed to it, opened it quietly, and pulled Coulson in beside him, shutting the door quietly.

Inside the closet, it was pitch black and silent, but for the heavy sound of their breathing. Clint pressed his mouth and nose into his arm, using the fabric of his hoodie to muffle the noise. Coulson took a deep breath before he quieted his movements as well.

The office door opened with a click.

_Ca-clik ca-clik ca-clik._

The lightbulb came on, light filtering through the cracks at the edges of the closet door. Clint could see through the one near his head if he pressed his eye to it. He saw the old man, the oldest of the Tracksuit Draculas, his joints clicking as he moved, a cane in hand. He pulled out a key with a shaking hand and opened a drawer. He pulled out a bottle of something – whiskey, Clint thought – and locked the desk drawer. Then, he stopped.

Clint pulled back from the crack, listening for the old man to move towards the closet, but all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. He closed his eyes.

Suddenly, he was all too aware of the size of the closet, the proximity between him and Phil Coulson, the blood and adrenaline pumping through him. He felt hot-headed and dizzy with Coulson pressing into him, body muscled and warm beneath his suit, his hand consciously or unconsciously sitting on Clint's hip like an anchor point.

_Ca-clik ca-clik._

Clint held his breath and opened his eyes. Coulson's face was inches from his, his eyes wide as the old Tracksuit moved around outside in the office, feet away from their hiding spot. But Coulson wasn't staring at the door.

Clint met Coulson's eyes and held his gaze for a long moment.

_This looks –_

Heart racing, Clint leaned forwards and kissed Coulson.

_Ca-clik ca-clik ca-clik ca-clik._

The light in the room switched off, the door closed and locked, and the _ca-cliks_ faded out into the basement.

Clint just pulled Coulson closer with a fistful of his tie, opened his mouth to deepen the kiss, and swallowed the gasp Coulson made as they ground together.

Coulson pressed his other hand into Clint's hip and pulled him closer. His palms were fever-hot through the fabric of Clint's jeans, his breath warm and sweet as it curled into Clint's mouth. Clint kissed Coulson until he was buzzing with adrenaline and arousal, until he could feel Coulson's pulse pumping just as hard as his with a hand on the pulse in his throat, until he couldn't think for the need of air.

Clint pulled back. The closet was pitch black, punctuated only by his and Coulson's heaving breaths. Clint sucked down the sweet, cool air, and wondered if Coulson looked as beautiful kiss-swollen as he did flushed and disheveled from undercover work.

"You have the worst timing ever," Coulson decided in a whisper. His voice was low and heavy. Clint smirked triumphantly, knowing Coulson could probably sense his smugness in the dark.

"Is that a complaint?" Clint whispered back. "Doesn't seem like one to me."

"It's a complaint about your timing," Coulson said, opening the closet door quietly and stepping out.

"Really? I'd say it was about time," Clint replied, closing the closet behind him. Coulson clicked on his flashlight in time for Clint to see him shaking his head fondly.

Coulson headed across the room, towards the exit, but he stopped halfway. He glanced back at Clint.

"Later," Coulson promised in a hoarse whisper, unknowingly sending sparks down Clint's spine.

Clint followed Coulson out the door and into the empty basement.

*

Somehow, _somehow,_ they made it back into the elevator, through the hallways, and back out the window and onto the fire escape without a glitch.

Clint felt giddy with success and excitement the entire time, but Coulson seemed as cool and collected as usual. A heavy, forced silence hung between them as they climbed down the fire escape and onto the street. Coulson's car was parked a few blocks away, but they had to keep to the shadows and make sure they weren't tailed. Frustration boiled in Clint’s veins, but he bit it back. Later. They’d have time later.

By the time they made it to Coulson's car, Clint's adrenaline rush had nearly faded away. He slipped into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief and shut the door, finally allowing his muscles to loosen.

Coulson got into the driver’s side, turned to Clint, and kissed him soundly, surprising even Clint for once.

Clint froze in shock for a split second before he kissed Coulson back enthusiastically. It was awkward, kissing over the gearshift, but Coulson smiled with his lips still pressed to Clint’s mouth and tugged on Clint's hoodie and Clint – Clint was pretty sure it was more than worth it.

When they finally pulled away, Coulson turning red from some ill-advised embarrassment at letting his emotions get the better of him, Clint laughed.

"What?" Coulson said, looking bewildered.

"So," Clint said, leaning forward and resting a hand on Coulson's thigh. " _That's_ your other skill set."

Coulson let out a laugh like he’d been keeping it down for awhile. "Come on," he said, leaning back in his seat and buckling up, "Kate will worry if you're not back in a few hours. Don't want her showing up to rescue you."

"A few hours," Clint repeated slowly, meeting Coulson's eye.

Coulson bit his lip. "Oh," he sighed, shaking his head like he had before in the dark office, "I can't say no to you."

"That's the spirit, Coulson," Clint said, squeezing the hand still on Coulson's thigh.

"Please," Coulson said, glancing out the window and throwing his car into reverse. "Call me Phil."

**

Clint had never been to Phil's apartment, but that didn't stop him from groping Phil in the hall as he struggled with his keys.

"Clint," Phil said breathlessly as Clint pushed him up against the doorway, kissing a line down his jaw and onto his neck and making it his personal mission in life to give Phil Coulson, Agent of SHIELD and Stone Cold Badass, a hickey that would make him blush like a tomato when he went into work the next day.

"Clint," Phil repeated, this time in a tone that made Clint stop and take a step back. He gave Phil some breathing space.

"What is it?" Clint asked, blinking.

"I –" Phil took in a deep breath, stared at the ceiling, and muttered something like, "forgive me, Maria Hill," before he said:

_"Reverie."_

Like plunging into an ocean of memories (okay, that’s a shitty metaphor, but it was _true)_ , Clint remembered everything – the Secret Avengers, fighting AIM, missions with Nat and Fury and Bobbi, flirting with Coulson – everything.

"Oh," Clint said. "Shit."

"Before we…initiate anything," Phil said, slipping back into the cool mask of Coulson, "I think we should talk about this."

"Um," Clint said, taking another step back from Coulson, realizing he'd basically pinned him up against his apartment door.

"There's a certain… _power imbalance_ between us," Coulson said carefully. "You should be aware of your position on the Secret Avengers, and also know that while you remember some things–"

"Like, weirdly enough, scones?" Clint said. "And the vague idea that I'd worked with you before, but I thought I was mixing up you and Sitwell–"

"– You don't remember the majority of our time together," Coulson confirmed.

"Are you _trying_ to ruin the mood?" Clint asked. Then, realizing that sounded whiny, he looked down at his purple sneakers and shrugged. "Sorry," Clint said.

"No," Coulson said. "Don't be. You deserve to know. Additionally, I'm your superior officer. Technically, as teammates, fraternization is strictly prohibited." He frowned a little. Clint stared at him.

"Are you saying you want out?" Clint said, perplexed. "Hell, Coulson, how many of my Exes are on our team? SHIELD cares about fraternization about as much as Captain America does in the Avengers." Clint shook his head.

"It's more than that," Coulson said. "As I said, I'm your superior. I've interviewed – interrogated you before, Barton. There's a power imbalance between us. It makes any type of – of affair, or relationship difficult. I know that you don't feel pressured –"

"I sure as hell don't, considering how I didn't remember you were my superior until five seconds ago," Clint growled under his breath.

"– But I need you to be aware of the situation before you can consent to it. Do you understand?" Coulson asked, face sympathetic.

"Do you honestly think that I'm going to let SHIELD dictate my life like that?" Clint said, raising an eyebrow. "And do you really think I give a shit about whether or not you're a 'superior officer?'" he snorted. "Come on, like I'd ever let anyone tell me what to do." Clint smiled. "I get it. And I don't care."

Phil stepped forwards with relief evident on his face. "You have a point," he said.

"Of course I do," Clint smirked. "Now, come on, zap me back, or whatever. Pretty sure I want to remember this part later on," he said with a wink.

Phil set his hands gently on Clint's shoulders and leaned forwards to speak quietly.

_"Reverie."_

Clint blinked.

"Where were we?" he said, leaning forwards to kiss Phil.

He got a vague look around Phil's apartment as they kicked off their shoes in the hall and headed straight to the bedroom, but Clint was preoccupied with – other things.

This time, when he pressed Phil against the door to the bedroom, he didn't protest.

Clint kissed Phil open-mouthed, sucking on his tongue, grinding their hips together. When Phil nipped at Clint's bottom lip, he gasped in surprise.

Phil pressed into Clint, even backed into the door as he was, and began to peel off Clint's hoodie. Clint threw it haphazardly to the floor, his shirt following a moment later, then pulled Coulson into another kiss.

Clint had a lot of experience with kissing – you could _never_ have too much experience with kissing, okay, Clint was a firm believer of that – but he was almost shocked by how great a kisser Phil was. He wasn't going to have the whole "Is Coulson more experienced with guys than I am?" crisis right now, not at all, but Clint was pretty sure that Phil had had his day in court. And then some.

It almost wasn’t fair – was there anything that _wasn’t_ perfect about this guy? If there was, Clint was having trouble seeing it at the moment, with Phil’s knee between his legs and his hands on Clint’s ass.

_Oh, Barton, you are so fucked._

If Phil had looked gorgeous fake-rumpled, he looked even better when he was completely ravished; his lips kiss-swollen and red, his hair ruffled, cheeks red with a blush Clint didn't understand. Clint nuzzled Phil's neck and returned to his attempted hickey, sucking until Phil was gasping appreciatively enough and he'd left a mark sure to turn heads if Coulson didn’t find a way to cover it.

"You're doing that on purpose," Phil groaned, voice deliciously thick and throaty. Clint chuckled darkly, kissing the hickey by way of answer. He playfully nipped at the skin on Phil's neck, then, bypassing biting (Later? Later.), kissed down the buttons of Phil's shirt, tangling his fingers in Phil's tie.

"Do you want to use condoms?" Clint asked, hesitating to meet Phil's eye.

"I'm clean," Phil said, "it's up to you. You know, we're literally five feet from my bed," Phil said as Clint kneeled to the ground and unbuckled his belt.

"I'm clean, too, if we're going without. Are you seriously complaining when I'm about to give you a blow job?" Clint said, pulling down Phil's zipper. He was hard (of course he was, it went without saying) and just desperate enough for friction to rut against Clint's hand.

"Not a complaint," Phil said. "Just a sug- _gestion_ ," he moaned as Clint pulled down Phil's boxers and wrapped a hand around his cock.

Phil met Clint's eyes. He watched Phil's adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

Clint hesitated only for a moment before he licked Phil's cock, slowly, their eyes still glued together. Phil shuddered _magnificently_. Looking down to avoid getting a crick in his neck, Clint took the head of Phil’s dick into his mouth and slowly began to suck on it. Phil’s moans grew louder as slowly, being as much of a tease as possible, Clint took more of Phil’s cock into his mouth, moving up and down on the slick of his spit with a slow pace that was practically killing Phil.

"Clint, please," Phil gasped when Clint circled his head with his tongue. "Just get on with it. Please."

Instantly, Clint pulled off from Phil's dick, leaving him hanging.

"So polite," Clint said devilishly, standing up. His voice was torn rough and low. He cleared his throat, then asked, "Bed?"

Clint shucked off his pants and backed up until he could lay back on the bed, smirking. Phil was after him in a moment, kicking off his pants and boxers, and throwing his suit jacket on top of Clint's pile of clothing.

Phil stopped at his nightstand for a moment to grab a bottle of lube from the drawer. He threw it at Clint. He caught it and eyed Phil carefully, raising a speculative eyebrow.

"Grape?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. Phil grimaced.

"Long story," he sighed.

"You can tell me later," Clint said with a deep chuckle. "What do you want to do?" he asked as Phil climbed onto the bed next to him. He was still wearing a shirt, for whatever dumb reason.

"I just –" Phil stopped to attempt to clear his throat of the harsh, wrecked edge of desire, but utterly failed. "I just want you to touch me," he said.

Clint let out a breathy exhale. He set the lube aside for the moment and reached for Phil, taking advantage of the fact that he still hadn't taken off his shirt and tie to pull him closer by his tie.

Kneeling together on the bed, they fumbled with Phil’s tie and buttons for a moment, then finally threw the last of their clothing to the floor. Phil pulled Clint into a kiss, hands roaming greedily across warm skin. Clint spread his fingers out on Phil's shoulders and traced down his spine, enjoying the shiver of Phil's shoulders at his touch.

Clint gasped when Phil squeezed his ass and pulled him closer, rutting against him. Clint's fingers scrambled on the bed for the bottle of lube. He found and uncapped it, accidentally pouring _way too much_ into his hand. Phil chuckled and pressed his hand into Clint's, slicking it up with some of the extra lube. He trailed his fingers tenderly over Clint's stomach and teased them around the base of Clint's dick.

"Oh, god, come on, Phil," Clint groaned into Phil's shoulder.

Phil's hand was hot and slick when he finally began to stroke Clint's cock in earnest. Clint thrust his hips forwards into his hand. He gasped, wet and low, his spine already shaking from the buildup of anticipation and desire. Phil had barely begun to touch him, but he felt like a live wire, his famous stamina ruined by this – this adorable, unassuming, unflappable _asshole_ , to whom Clint had grown far too attached.

Clint pulled back from Phil's shoulder and wrapped his hand, dripping with lube, around Phil's dick. He was rock hard, his cock shining with spit and lube. Clint twisted his wrist, stroking slowly at first, then attempted to match Phil's pace on his own dick.

Phil grunted from exertion, his hips moving to meet skin. His grip on Clint's cock faltered as he drew closer to the edge, finally failing when Clint leaned down on his hands and knees and drew the tip of Phil's cock into his mouth. He sucked hard and fast until Phil was gasping under his touch, his desperate breaths catching higher and higher in the back of his throat. Clint tasted the odd flavor of the grape lube for a moment before Phil came with a cry. Clint decided, _Fuck it, why go halfway?_ and swallowed as Phil came.

He waited until Phil's gasps turned to heaving breaths, then pulled his mouth off Phil's softening cock.

"You're amazing," Phil said when Clint sat back on the bed to catch his breath. (Not that he was getting old or anything, blow jobs were hard work, okay? Pun so intended.) Phil leaned across Clint's lap to kiss him breathless again, once again stroking Clint's dick. Clint groaned at the relief. Phil pulled back to whisper, "But we're not done yet."

Pushing Clint back by his shoulders, Phil jerked Clint off slowly. His hands were calloused against the sensitive skin of Clint's dick. Clint could feel the marks of a man who carried a gun, movements careful and marked, and keened at Phil's firm touch.

Far too soon, Clint’s hands tightened on the sheets and he thrust sporadically into Phil’s hand, his moans loudly obscene even to his ears. He came with a barely bitten-off shout, squeezing his eyes shut against the spots in his vision.

When he opened them, Coulson sat above him. His hand was covered in Clint's come, and – _fuck,_ that _did things_ to Clint's head. He hoped he took that mental image with him to his dying day.

"Fuck," Clint groaned. Phil collapsed beside him.

"Yeah," Phil said. "We just did."

Clint turned to giggle senselessly into the mattress.

"I think you've worn out your sense of humor for the night," he said, voice muffled by the fabric. His voice was wrecked and he was bone-dead tired. It had been a tense night. All he wanted to do was curl up and sleep.

"I think you've worn out _me_ for the night," Phil said with a groan. "But we should clean up," he continued, ever the responsible one. He sat up and rolled out of bed (like a normal person, Clint was still amazed to note), leaving Clint for a few moments while he found a washcloth. Clint watched Phil's bare ass disappear from the room with a stupid, fond smile that he couldn't bite back.

 _Yep, Barton, totally fucked,_ Clint thought. _Now you just have to figure out why you don't mind so much._

*

Clint jolted awake.

He'd almost dozed off completely, warm and comfortable in bed. His head was pillowed on Phil's chest like the sap he pretended he wasn't.

"Hmm?" Phil asked sleepily as Clint sat up and yawned.

"Kate'll kill me," he said, voice foggy with sleepiness. The recon "mission" – and the exuberant sex that followed – had utterly exhausted him.

"Call her," Phil answered into his pillow. "Stay."

"You really put up a good argument," Clint grunted as he stretched.

"There'll be pancakes," Phil said, slightly more awake. "And morning sex.”

"If you insist," Clint said lazily. He glanced at Coulson's digital clock. It was past 4 AM. Kate would be half-asleep on his couch with his dog, stealing the neighbor's wifi on her laptop.

Clint stood up and went to find his pants. They were lying by the door, Phil's jacket thrown haphazardly over them. Clint sifted through the pockets of his jeans for Kate's phone.

It wasn't there.

He checked his hoodie pockets, then searched his jeans again, heart racing as the dread flooded his system, shocking him back into full consciousness. Clint shuffled through all of his clothes, searching frantically for the phone, hoping it had simply fallen out onto Phil’s bedroom floor.

Heart sinking, Clint sat back on his heels. There wasn't a sign of Kate's phone anywhere, but Clint knew where it was.

  
The office. With the Tracksuit Draculas.

Clint ran both of his hands through his hair and tried not to panic.

"Clint?" he heard from the bed. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Clint said too quickly. He moved to smooth his hair back down. "I should get back," he said. Phil sat up in bed.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Clint sighed, reaching for his wrinkled shirt and pulling it on.

"I'll give you a ride," Phil said sensibly.

"No," Clint said. "I'll get a cab. You get some sleep. Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure everything's fine?" Phil asked. Clint was dressed now, reaching for his discarded gear.

"Yeah, I just need to get back," Clint answered as nonchalantly as possible. "I'll call you," Clint promised, ducking out of the bedroom before Phil could protest.

_Dummy._

Clint looked up as he stepped out into the night. It was almost morning, really, with early joggers setting out and late partiers just getting in.

 _Good job,_ Clint thought to himself. _Why do I always screw everything –_

"Heh," Clint laughed aloud. "That's the problem."

He slumped down the stairs and headed down the block to the first payphone in sight. He stuck a few quarters in and dialed a number he'd memorized.

"Hello?" Natasha Romanoff answered.

"Natasha," Clint said. "I need your help. I lost a phone."

  
"I hate to break it to you, but I think you're talking on it," she said wryly.

"Ha, ha," Clint replied. "No. I, uh, lost a cell phone somewhere."

"You don't have a cell phone," Natasha said. "Is it Kate's?"

"Yes," he groaned. "I used it to take pictures of something while I was getting…recon. And I, uh, accidentally left it there."

There was a momentary pause.

"You know, you could have just bought a camera," Natasha said.

"I know, I know," Clint sighed. "Stupid."

"What do you need my help for?" she asked. "Why not ask Coulson? I hear he's been _extremely_ helpful lately."

"Not even going to ask how you know that," Clint grunted. "Just, it's in a…compromising place. Do you know how to get the pictures off it and wipe it or explode it or whatever?"

"There's an app for that."

"Natasha," Clint pleaded.

Natasha sighed. "Do I want to know what you've been taking pictures of?" she muttered to herself. "No, I don't think I’m going to ask. I'll check – but for Kate's sake, Clint."

He heard her typing something into a computer from the other end of the line and waited patiently.

"I can't get a signal," she said, a frown in her voice. "Either the battery is dead or it's out of range. You'll have to retrieve the phone yourself."

"Ugh," Clint said, yawning suddenly. "Okay. Thanks. I need a nap."

"The longer you wait, the higher chance it be discovered," Natasha reminded him.

Clint scuffed his shoe on the sidewalk. "Fine, I'm going," he said. "Thanks again."

"I did it for Kate," Natasha said, but Clint laughed knowingly.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, about to hang up the phone. Clint stopped and smirked.

"Hey –" he said with a chuckle, "– Nat, I was right. My type _definitely_ doesn't have the SHIELD logo tattooed on his ass."

He hung the phone back on the receiver after he heard Natasha's answering laugh.

*

It was nearly light when Clint slipped back through the window and into the Tracksuit Dracula HQ. The Tracksuit Coven. Tracksuit Lair. Whatever.

The room he slipped into was empty, as was the hall, although the elevator key that he and Phil had dropped on the floor (in a vague effort towards making it look like it had simply been lost) was gone. Clint stealthily made his way down the stairwell to the bottom floor, hoping everyone was cleared out.

He was lucky, for once. The ground floor was nearly deserted, except for a few drunken Tracksuits and the trash of the party. It was easy to avoid them as Clint snuck around the dirty room and towards the side hall that led to the basement. He glanced around the corner for sign of any guards, but they were gone, presumably with the partiers.

Clint grinned and rushed to the door, pulling out his lock-picking kit and setting to work. He was through in a moment, shutting the door behind him and pulling out his flashlight to make his way down the dark steps to the basement.

He paused for a moment at the office door before typing in the code as best he could remember, _8-4-6-4-1._ Then, he was in.

Clint closed the door behind him. He cast his flashlight around, searching the floor for any sign of Kate's phone. It had a purple case, he remembered. It was one of those nice smartphones, probably a StarkPhone or something, with a touchscreen and everything. It was probably really expensive, too.

He kneeled down to the floor and searched around the room on his hands and knees, ignoring the tired ache in his joints. It wasn't anywhere obvious, and for a moment, Clint wondered if it was even in the office at all. It could have fallen out of his pocket in the elevator. Or in the hall. Hell, it could be back in Coulson's _car_ –

A glimpse of purple underneath the desk caught Clint's eye. He dove underneath the desk, grinning as he pulled out Kate's phone.

"Gotcha!" Clint said triumphantly.

"No, bro," a voice said from the door. "Got _you._ "

*

_Okay._

"Hey, bro, gonna see if I can knock some sense into this bro."

"No, bro. They want you up there, bro, want to talk to you. Let me – _handle_ this bro."

_This looks bad._

The door to the basement swung open.

Bright yellow light streamed in through the door. A Tracksuit Dracula stood silhouetted against it for a moment.

From his chair, Clint squinted against the sudden brightness. He struggled a little against his bonds, trying desperately to escape. He was tired and stiff from being knocked out and tied up for hours, but if he could get out, he could take out this guy and run. He just needed a little leverage – just a _little._

The Tracksuit Dracula slammed the basement door shut behind him and tromped down the stairs. Clint worked his fingers to desperately untie the knots, but they were too rough, too tight. He was in for it, this time.

 _You idiot,_ he thought, _really screwed yourself over this time._

"Bro," the Tracksuit said, his accent thick (Russian?). "Bro, you gonna tell us what you're doing here, bro? Gonna talk, bro?"

Clint glared through the shadows as he came closer. The guy had a bat that he swung around in his hand menacingly. Clint knew he intended to use it.

"Huh, bro?" the Tracksuit Dracula said, reaching up to yank the lightbulb's pull chain.

The light switched on, and Phil Coulson smirked at Clint.

He was dressed in a red-brown tracksuit and sneakers, slouching as he swung the baseball bat back and forth. Clint opened his mouth to speak, but Phil shook his head.

"We can do this hard way, or easy way, bro," he said in his fake accent. "Your choice, bro."

"I think I'll go with the hard way," Clint grinned.

With a shout, Phil swung the bat into the chair. Clint yelped theatrically, then shook his head, unable to contain his silent giggles. Phil knelt beside Clint and pulled out a knife to cut the ropes.

"Kate called me," Phil whispered in his ear. Clint resisted the urge to groan loudly. Natasha had probably called her the moment he'd hung up.

"They took the phone," Clint whispered back.

With a sardonic look, Phil pulled Kate's purple phone from his pocket. Wordlessly, Clint leaned over and kissed him.

The look Phil gave him when he pulled back was long-suffering but fond. Phil helped Clint out of the rest of his bonds and stood up.

"He'll be back in a few minutes," Phil muttered, "come on."

Clint shook out his stiff limbs as best he could and followed Phil up the stairs.

"How'd you get in?" he whispered as Phil checked the door. Luckily, the guard was still gone, the door left unguarded.

"Through the front door," Phil chuckled.

"And the tracksuit?" Clint asked. It was the first time Clint had properly seen Coulson out of a suit. _…Well._

"They sell these in stores, you know," Phil replied. He pulled Clint along quickly, into another hall and towards a Fire Exit.

"Bro!"

“Hey, bro! Bro not going nowhere, bro.”

“Bro bro bro bro bro!”

Without turning to see who they alerted, Phil and Clint turned tail and ran out the door and into the trashy alleyway beyond.

"This way!" Coulson, leading Clint down another alley, past trash cans and through puddles of standing water. Clint chanced a glance behind them and saw a handful of Tracksuit Draculas chasing them.

"They've got guns," Clint shouted after Coulson. He swore.

Shots rang out after them as they turned a corner, bullets hitting brick walls as they missed their targets. Clint pushed himself to run faster after Phil, not sure where they were heading. He trusted Coulson to know where they were going.

"Almost there," Coulson said as they reached the mouth of an alleyway. Clint started when he saw the familiar building of the Tracksuit's HQ. Had Phil just literally ran them in _a circle_?

Coulson ran out into the street ahead of Clint, stopping when a purple VW Bug skid to a stop in front of them from where it had been hiding in a nearby alley.

"Took you long enough," Kate said from the rolled-down window. "Get in, losers. We're going shopping."

Coulson dove forwards to open the back door and Clint barreled in after him, slamming the door shut.

"Go, go, go, go, go!" Clint said, ducking down.

"Okay, okay," Kate huffed. "So pushy. _I'm_ not the one who got you into this mess."

She set her foot down on the gas and sped off down the road, just as the _RATATATATATA!_ soundof bullets pierced the air. She was out of range before they could even fire with anything close to accuracy.

"Sure you don’t want me to go punch in a few heads for you?" someone asked from the passenger's seat.

Clint looked up from where he was crouched in the backseat. A girl, about Kate's age, sat in the front with her arms crossed. She was dressed in red, white, and blue, and had long curly hair. Clint glanced at Phil, who'd already fastened his seatbelt, and sent him a questioning look. Phil shrugged.

Begrudgingly, Clint sat back and buckled up.

"Uh, who are you?" he asked, staring at the girl. She stared back, raising an eyebrow at him. (He _may_ have had a black eye.)

"Clint, this is America Chavez, aka Miss America," Kate said, gesturing with a hand as she drove at a normal speed down a somewhat safer street. "America, this is Hawkeye 2.0."

"2.0?!" Clint protested.

"You heard," Kate said. "You know, I don’t even think I want to be associated with you anymore, after all that. You ruined my breakfast date, Barton. Never do that again," she said, her voice shaking underneath her teasing bravado.

They stopped at a stoplight. Clint met Kate’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They were blurred over with frustration and concern, her gaze unwaveringly angry with him. Clint felt a pang of guilt.

"I know," he said quietly, leaning forwards to rest his chin on the shoulder of her seat. "Forgive me, Katie-Kate?"

Kate sighed. "Fine," she said faux-casually. "But you're paying for breakfast."

"Breakfast?" Clint groaned. "Seriously? After all that?"

"Seriously. After all that," America huffed from the front seat, crossing her arms and staring out the window. Clint got the feeling she didn't appreciate being dragged along while Kate saved his ass. He didn't blame her, really.

Clint looked around the car. He glanced from Kate in her blue jeans and t-shirt, trying to cover her red eyes with a pair of sunglasses, to America, wearing a disgruntled scowl in the passenger seat, and then to Phil. He looked at least half as tired as Clint, with bags under his eyes and a hint of stubble on his jaw. He looked self-conscious, trying to smooth down the fabric of his tracksuit to make himself look anything but tacky, and utterly failing.

"Come on, Kate," Clint sighed, turning back to her. "I'm exhausted. I didn't get any sleep."

"And whose fault is that?" she said over her shoulder.

From beside him in the backseat, Phil snorted quietly. Clint turned and, matching Phil’s smile with one of his own, leaned forwards to kiss him.

 _Okay,_ Clint thought as they shared a kiss, ignoring the groans of the two girls in the front seat. _Maybe this isn't so bad after all._

 

_The End._

 


End file.
